


The Logic Of The Bully

by swampthot



Category: Smash (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, This Is STUPID, like a fuckin Angst Load
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampthot/pseuds/swampthot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if The Coup had ended a little differently?</p>
<p>M/M angst, may have more chapters if anyone decides to care about it. Is the Smash fandom dead? We will fuckin see my dudes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Logic Of The Bully

Derek was angry.

He was angry that after all this work, his idea was just going to be cast aside. And for God’s sake, it was a good idea. He was the best at what he did. Giving the musical a modern edge would actually distinguish it from the countless other works that Marilyn: The Musical was, essentially, a carbon copy of.

Tom walked in and Derek snorted internally.

“What?” Derek said aloud.

“I should have never let you near this project,” Tom said softly. He sounded almost sad, but that honestly wasn’t possible. Derek couldn’t imagine him being anything other than vindictive at this moment.

Derek forced down his rage and stood up calmly. “But you did!” He threw up his hands exaggeratedly and strode toward Tom. “Because you haven’t got the edge, or the insight, or the balls to make Marilyn what she needs to be.”

Tom uttered out a derisive laugh, trying to cover up his shock, or something. “That is-- Completely--”

“Completely what, Tom?” Derek sneered a little. “The truth? There was no other reason to hire me, and everyone is well aware of how angry you are at whatever nonsense you think I pulled eleven years ago.”

Tom felt rage start to boil in his stomach. “Oh you mean when you tried to destroy my career? You mean that nonsense?” He was yelling now, and he didn’t care.

“We did a show together, Tom. It went badly. That’s it.” Derek was maintaining his usual devil-may-care attitude. The man seemed so incapable of emotion, of passion, except when he could use it to get what he wanted.

“You botched that production,” Tom spat.

“Not according to the New York Times.”

“That critic was in your pocket!”

Derek shook his head. Something about his mannerisms seemed so calculated, so patronizing. He sounded like he was trying to reason with a child. “No, Tom. He liked my direction. He didn’t like your songs. It happens.”

“You bragged about it!” Tom seethed. In a terrible impersonation of Derek, he whined, “‘That’s what you get when they’ve known you since birth.’”

“Listen--” Derek started.

“I don’t even care about the critics,” Tom interrupted.

“Oh, we all care about the critics--”

“What I care about,” Tom said more softly, “Is that you went to every theatre in town and trashed me.” He ignored Derek’s derisive laugh and continued, with an unmaskable undertone of hurt. “You were vicious. You told every director that I was unstable, that my talent had always been overrated, that I would never be an artist--”

“That is an interesting fiction.”

“That last one? You said that one to my face, screaming at me in the middle of Bar Centrale!” Tom wanted to slap him, do anything to get that smug tone out of his voice. He wanted to render him vulnerable for once. Emotional. Human. Everything he knew Derek wasn’t.

“Nope. Don’t remember any of it.”

“We were friends!” The room was overtaken by a deep silence for a moment. “Do you remember that?”

Derek had no way to respond to that accusation, for once, and he immediately switched tactics. “Do you know what?” he asked sardonically. “Gay men never cease to amaze me. You own the New York theatre scene, and yet you constantly prance around, whining about what victims you are.”

Tom shook his head slowly. “The logic of the bully. You’re allowed to hit me, but it’s my fault if I bleed--”

“How have I hit you?” Derek said, feigning ignorance with an eyeroll.

“What was this?” Tom yelled, gesturing to the empty stage. “You know, don’t bother answering that.” He could feel rage in every atom of his body, and he knew that he couldn’t hold back what he was about to say.

“Oh, and for your information, homophobe,” he jeered, “That critic wasn’t ‘in your pocket’. He was having sex with your father.” He slapped Derek on the shoulder in a show of mock congratulation. “Never heard you bragging about that.”

For a split second, Derek finally looked at a loss for words, and then anger twisted his features as he grabbed Tom’s shirt, about to punch him. Tom almost would have welcomed it.

But Derek didn’t do that. Derek kissed him.

Tom was completely at a loss for words. Actually, he was at a loss to do anything, and even if he would’ve had the fortitude, he would never have been physically able to pull himself out of Derek’s grip, a grip fueled by rage and hate and something deeper and more complicated.

Derek kissed him so hard Tom could swear he felt a bruise forming, but he did nothing but stand there, hands at his side, clenched into fists. He felt so many feelings bubble to the surface, sadness and anger and loss and pain and every muddy little thing he had never examined too closely, free to do as much damage as possible.

Derek finally broke the kiss roughly and pushed Tom away. Tom opened his mouth to speak and choked on something. Derek unclenched his fist from Tom’s rumpled shirt and walked away wordlessly, finally and completely unsettled to the core. The door slammed. Tom didn’t move.

Tom remembered how he’d felt before the backstabbing had begun, when all he did was laugh at Derek’s dry sense of humor and sneak glances when Derek was otherwise occupied, when he’d thought it didn’t matter when Derek made fun of him, when he’d thought they were friends, and nothing more, and nothing less.

He remembered the first glimpse of hope that had occurred when Derek had fallen asleep with his head in his lap at three AM, hair a complete mess, mumbling about all the work he had to do. Tom left after fifteen minutes, gently placing a pillow under his head, terrified of what would happen if he woke.

He remembered the first time he’d realized that Derek could never respect him as an artist or a friend. He remembered walking away from Derek entirely. He had known then only there was some deep, unshakeable sense of loss. Now, he knew why.

Tom sat down on the empty, dark, desolate stage and cried.

Across New York City, wide awake and alone, Derek didn’t.


End file.
